


Tonight

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patrician & Clerk [15]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Complicated Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 22:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Wilkinson and Faigle enjoy their day off, knowing that they'll be back to work tomorrow.





	Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous request! Vetinari/Drumknott + and just something domestic? Like just one of those rare times they are able to rest and enjoy each other’s company

Faigle watched the kettle on the hob, whistling into life. Once a week or so, one of the Dark Clerks usually came into the apartment in Sator Square, making sure that it was ready to live in at any moment, making sure it was clean and without dust. 

It was a comfortable flat. Small, cosy,  _warm_...

“Last day off for a while,” Wilkinson murmured, and Faigle leaned back against his chest as he came up behind him. His arms wrapped loosely around Faigle’s shoulders. They were both naked: they slept like that, when they were here, when they could. Wilkinson’s bare skin was warm against Faigle’s back, and Faigle sighed, closing his eyes as he felt Wilkinson’s mouth press against his temple. “You don’t want to go back?”

“Don’t ask me to say things, just because you want to,” Faigle murmured. “You know we have to.”

Wilkinson sighed against his hair, and then he pressed a kiss to it. “I know. I know, I know. What would you like to do with our day, hm? We might take t’train somewhere, to one of the villages, have a picnic...”

“No,” Faigle murmured.

“No?” Wilkinson repeated, sounding amused. “My boy doesn’t want to ride the train? Funny. Who’re you, and where’s Howard?”

“I want to stay here,” Faigle said. “I want to stay here, and lie in bed, and read books, and do naught else.”

“ _Naught_  else, is it?” Wilkinson repeated, his tone sly. His fingers played a pattern down over Faigle’s belly, eking downward, and Faigle shuddered, feeling colour heat his cheeks.

“ _Almost_  naught else,” he amended. 

“Alright, chuck,” Wilkinson murmured. His voice wasn’t like Vetinari’s, not really: it was louder than his voice was, and the accent was so different one would never imagine, heard side-by-side, that the voices were made by the same mouth. Faigle almost wished they were more alike, almost wished...

But, no.

No.

When they were Faigle and Wilkinson, they were Faigle and Wilkinson.

There was a freedom in that.

Turning in Wilkinson’s arms, he dragged him into a kiss, and he felt the slight drag of Wilkinson’s stubble against his mouth, his chin. He shivered, and he heard Wilkinson’s dirty little laugh, felt Wilkinson grab at his backside, take two handfuls of flesh and  _squeeze_. 

“Tea,” Faigle said.

“Fuck the tea,” Wilkinson said. 

“ _Vince!”_

_“Howard,”_  Wilkinson rumbled. He looked at Faigle with dark eyes, his mouth quirked into a savage grin, and Faigle shivered, but then he dragged the kettle off the hob, setting it down on the plate beside the hob. Tea thus abandoned, he let Wilkinson drag him back toward the bed.

They couldn’t have done this ten years ago. Faigle knew that, knew it well - twelve years, they’d been together, and until recently, Wilkinson never used to touch him like this, never, not ever...

It was odd, he thought. Wilkinson was never  _aroused_  by it - not physically - but he liked it, Faigle knew, liked to see  _Faigle_ get off, liked to see Faigle sprawled out on the bed, and in recent years, even though he never... Even though he never  _participated_ , in the way another man might, exactly, he did want to touch him. He  _did_  touch. He dragged his fingers over Faigle’s thighs, kissed his knees, bit at his hips, as Faigle touched himself, spoke such  _filth_ , watched him so eagerly it made Faigle squirm.

It was nice.

Faigle--

He loved it. 

**♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔ ☩ ♔**

They stayed in bed for most of the day, lounging, reading. They read to one another, when they were alone like this, and Faigle read aloud from a history book replete with sarcastic commentary on the building of Chirm as Wilkinson laughed, his face pressed into Faigle’s thigh, a plate of bread and cheese and grapes on the bed beside them, a wide tray beneath it to save them from crumbs. 

Wilkinson read him poetry, and Faigle listened, playing idly with Wilkinson’s hair. 

“Let’s go out to dinner,” Wilkinson said. 

“Where?” Faigle asked.

“Somewhere.”

“ _Where_?”

“Don’t know. You pick.”

“I don’t know either.”

“We’ll ask t’first person we meet what they recommend.”

“They’ll recommend somewhere terrible.”

“Yeah,” Wilkinson said, and grinned. “S’an adventure, right?”

Faigle laughed, and dropped back onto the bed, shaking his head. “Alright,” he said. “Fine.”

Back to work tomorrow. Back to work tomorrow...

But that was tomorrow.

This was still tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open.


End file.
